Dreadful Sorry
by Solarissis
Summary: I moved to a ghost town because of my job. I was happy with the choice but then things began to get strange; the first night i get assaulted by a man in my own hotel room. What on earth is going on here?
1. Chapter 1

_Hey guys, heres my attempt to write another story. I hope you guys like it : )_

It appeared that tonight I was not going to get much sleep, and who could blame me? I was in a god-forsaken ghost town.

I had come to Founders; a virtually deserted ghost town in Oregon with Mr. Simon Sullivan an engineer hired to basically rebuild the town. I was now the assistant of Mr. Sullivan who promised a great pay. Which is why I did not mind temporarily relocating from Sierra, California to Middle-of-Nowhere, Oregon.

In attempt to bring in tourism, the state wanted to pretty up the old ghost town, which flourished in the 19th century due to western expansion as well as the gold rush. It was not literally a ghost town because there were still a few people living in it, and some of the 19th century locales were even opened and ready for business, though it can be said that business was a bit scarce.

During our stay in Founders we would be staying in _The Gold King_, a locale that once served as a saloon as well as a motel. It was a beautiful place with a large first room kept true to the old west with its' polish bar, dark wooden tables and deep red Victorian wallpaper that had faded over time. They had even kept an old grand piano. The entrance opened to this main room, which then let to a narrow hallway with narrow stairs that gave way to the rooms above. It was indeed a beautiful place, if not slightly eerie because as soon as you stepped indoors you felt as if you were in another century.

When I was led to the room I would be occupying I was amazed that throughout the century the room too had retained its original feel. I fell absolutely in love with its dark gold wallpapers; it's deep red curtains, the bed of old gold metal frame and the dark wood armoire. There was even a vanity table with a large round mirror perched on the wall.

But despite how very exhausted I was after such a long day, I could not bring myself to sleep. The room felt too unlike my own, the air cold and stifling. I kept on thinking about what tomorrow would bring on and what the first day of work would be like.

I was in that state between light sleep and profound slumber when I heard the footsteps. I heard them walk across the hallway to and fro and then stop. They were heavy like that of a tall man, making the old wood creak beneath them. Then I heard a low and deep voice singing a song I did not recognize. Briefly I thought it was probably one of the men working with us on the reconstruction of the town. A brief thought struck me then; what the hell was he doing out and about at this time in a town like Founders? But I did not think much of it at that second. Deep sleep attempted to claim me.

But perhaps ten minutes later the footsteps woke me again, heavy and steady against the old wooden floor. But there was also the sound of fabric rubbing against itself. But something was different now, the creaking sounded much too close, as if it was inside my room and the sound of clothing being removed echoed through the silent walls. Sleepily I opened my eyes and saw the figure of a man facing me. In my sleepy stupor I simply stared at him.

He was standing against the foot of the bed and the moon illuminated him perfectly, casting a pale ghostly light on him. He was a tall man, perhaps six-foot-four, though he appeared even taller from my point of view. He was a large man, not fat, but his body was thickly hewn and solid. The firmness of his muscles was noticeable even through his dark color trousers and jacket. I could not see his face for it was obscured by the beaver cowboy hat he wore.

He began singing, his voice low and rough, haunting against the eerie silence of the night as he shed his hat and placed in on the foot of my bed. If I stretched out to my full five-foot four frame I knew I could touch his hands as I he placed it there. I felt his gaze on me when I had first opened my eyes but not without his hat there was no denying he was looking at me. Deprived from the shadow that his hat caused on his face I saw his features clearly. He was a handsome fellow; his hair was dark and long. Even in the dark I could tell his eyes were pale under his strong dark brows and his features were striking. His cheeks were high and his jaw was strong. His nose was sharp and straight and his lips were full, and soft. They seemed soft to me. He was a good-looking man, but there was anger in his gaze, directed towards me. There was disgust in it.

"_O bury me not on the lone prairie, Where coyotes wail and the wind blows free, And when I die don't bury me…"_

He continued his song and began taking off his jacket, again laying it on the bed, he unbuttoned his vest and then began opening the buttons at the collar of his shirt. I could see the smooth expanse of skin as he continued to do so.

"Sir," I whispered from my bed, but he did not acknowledge my voice, simply continued to stare at me intensely. Under his fixed glare I became more awake, causing me to sit up on the bed. How the hell had he gotten in this room? I _know_ I locked the door.

'_Beneath the western sky, on the lone prairie…'_ He continued singing

He then sat in the corner of the bed; besides the clothing garments he had placed upon it. That got me angry, here was this jerk sitting in my room when I was finally about to fall asleep and he had the audacity to glare at me and now ignore me. He bent at his waist reaching for his broken-in riding boots and my eyes widened.

"Hi, Hey, What the hell, man?" He still ignored me. So I kicked him, my feet connected with his backside. And that finally got Mr. Weirdo's attention, for he stopped singing and sat up.

He turned to look at me then and when his eyes fell on me, I froze. I had the feeling that he wanted to reach out and wrap his large hands around me neck. After a few seconds I felt the need to pull the blankets above my neck to cover my camisole. But that was ridiculous; I couldn't let this guy intimidate me.

"Get out, or I'll call the cops." More like the Sheriff and this guys looked like he could take him on without any problem.

"Leave." I tried to conjure the sternest tone I had but it appeared to enrage him further. He reached out and grabbed my foot; his hand was freezing cold against my warm skin, raising goose-bumps on my skin and causing the fine hair in the back of my neck to raise. And then he pulled me towards the edge of the bed. The friction against the mattress caused my camisole to slide nearly above my ribs and my shorts to scarcely cover my buttocks. He rolled on top of me, placing himself between my legs. His body was heavy against my own, I tried to push him off, to struggle against him, but he grabbed both my wrists with one hand and pinned my hands above my head. My eyes widened at the hate I saw reflected in his blue eyes.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I'll be damned If I you don't pay for what you did to me-" His voice was deep and full of hate. It's drawl inducing fear with every word.

"I don't understand…" I began to struggle as hard as I could, hating my slight frame for its' lack of power. Perhaps he noticed that I was about to scream for his other hand fell upon my mouth, brutally griping my face.

"How could you do it?" His accent said he was perhaps from Texas but there was strange mix to it, one similar to that you only hear in the voices of films about the old west. But stranger, more authentic. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes.

"Whore." His cold breath fell on my face. He removed his hand from my mouth and then covered it with his own. His lips were as soft as I knew they would be, commanding against my non-responding ones, angry in their movements. But it did not take long for heat to flood my body in this ludicrous situation, it did not take long till his lips conquered mine and my lips began to move against his. His free hand began moving over my thighs, over my stomach and he stopped when it fell upon my ribcage, under my left breast. I knew he felt my heartbeat under his palm.

Then he stopped, he rested his head against the mattress besides my face. I did not look at him. This was my chance to scream, to get help. Yet I lay there as if my bones had been melted from my body.

"Delilah. Always my Delilah." He said against my ear and I turned to look at him. His face was but a few inches from my own. His bright-blue eyes glowing even in the darkness. "Samson and Delilah, that's what they called us." He smiled sadly at me. I did not know what he was talking about, my name was not Delilah, he must have mistaken me for somebody else.

He then stood from the bed and walked towards the door.

"Samson and Delilah." He said bitterly as he walked towards the door. Then he opened it and simply walked out.

It took me a minute to gather my thoughts and stop my body from shaking furiously. On boneless knees I rose from the bed and locked the door after him. I could not even bring myself to call the sheriff. I turned on the lights and sat in bed in bed for the rest of the night with my chin on my knees, staring at the jacket and the hat he had left behind. Both items were covered in thick layer of dust as if her had been rolling on the ground for some time.

_Please take a second to review if you want me to continue. And let me know what you think. : D_


	2. Chapter 2

When I came down the stairs early the next morning I was incredibly glad to see Mrs. Stevenson, who along with her husband owned the motel. She was a really nice lady who inherited the locale after it was passed from generation to generation in her family.

She sat behind the bar and her head was bent in concentration as she looked at the papers before her. When she heard me approach her, she looked up, her kind brown eyes behind her glasses smiling in welcome. I took that as encouragement.

"Good morning, Mrs. Stevenson."

"Good morning, lila. And please just call me Daisy, all that Mrs just makes me feel like I am eighty years old, though I am close enough already. Heading out to see Mr. Sullivan?"

"No, I just thought I might see a bit of the town today. Mr. Sullivan called me earlier this morning, left me a message saying that apparently there would be a snow storm coming through," I said with a shrug.

"Weather man said we'll have some snow today but nothing serious I am sure." Daisy had grown up in a town neighboring Founders, but when she was old enough she decided to restore _The Gold King_ and began living here too. I am pretty sure she had never left Oregon in all her sixty years.

"I am suppose to meet him for lunch so we could discuss what my job as his assistant entails."

"I swear if I was thirty years younger I'd make a pass for that man." I couldn't help but laugh at her comment especially since she was married.

It was true Mr. Sullivan was a handsome man, with sharp hazel eyes and dark blonde hair and builds like a tennis player; doesn't get any better than that. And the man was as ambitious as can be building his own company from scratch in the course of ten years. It takes a lot of gut and determination to do that.

"Daisy can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Yesterday….I saw a man and he…I believe he had me confused with somebody else. Anyways I was wondering if maybe he was a guest here of if you knew him," I did not know how to describe what happened last night. I didn't want to tell her that he assaulted me in my room and that he kissed me. It seemed much too embarrassing.

"What did he look like?" She asked me setting her pen down on the dark mahogany bar. I looked at the bottles of whiskey and rum lined behind her as I thought of him again.

"He is tall, maybe six-three, six-four, he has dark hair that was fairly long…bright blue eyes. He was dressed in trousers, a jacket and a cowboy hat….he left them in my room." Seeing her reaction I knew that adding in the room part was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes widened slightly in scandal and she cleared her throat. But I did not feel the need to rectify my words.

"Doesn't sound familiar. Maybe he's one of the fellows Mr. Sullivan hired?"

"No I don't think so…He said something about…He said that they called us Samson and Delilah." Daisy's reaction to the names was instantaneous. I saw her ruddy cheeks pale and her mouth open in a surprised 'o'.

"Are you sure?"

"Sure as can be. So do you know who he is?"

"What I am thinking about can't possibly be true."

"What are you thinking about, Daisy?"

"Samson Holt." She did not say anything more on the name. And then my mobile phone vibrated in the pocket of my coat. I excused myself and reached for the phone. The name that appeared on the screen was J. Sullivan. I quickly answered the phone and it was only Mr. Sullivan to find out if I had listened to the message he left earlier this morning concerning what time we were meeting. After assuring him that I had, and exchanging a few pleasantries I hung up the phone and turned to look at Daisy, who appeared lost in thought.

She looked at me then. "Can you come down tomorrow night, I have some things I'd like to show you."

"Yes, of course." I searched her eyes questioningly.

"It's about Samson. I just want to bring a picture and see if maybe that's him."

"Okay, sounds good."

I walked through the town and was surprised how beautiful the place really was despite the air of desolation and the very few people who roamed it. I guess that what Sullivan was trying to do is repair those buildings that needed the reparation as well as expand to the original town. With the right nourishment this town could really flourish again. There was something really fascinating in knowing that you live in an old western town in which real cowboys roamed.

Despite the slight modernization of the streets being paved and the tall streetlights here and there, much was left untouched by time. Most buildings and businesses still looked the very same way they did more than a century ago. Their large windows giving view of what laid inside whether an empty room of a forgotten business or the lovely cluttered of those businesses, which had accumulated decoration over the decades. The sidewalks were still boardwalk as they were originally. Even old signs advertised each building.

I walked through the town despite the brisk Oregon winter. It wasn't long till I became fascinated with each building I came across. And then I continued to walk into a more desolated part of the town, where it did indeed look abandoned, utterly and completely. The wooden structure of the buildings dark and weathered, the windows barred or so thickly dusted that you couldn't even look in.

It was then that I saw him. I could not deny it to myself that it was he. He was leaning against the front of a building and I don't know how he had gotten there so quickly. But there he was, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in front of him. He looked straight at me as if waiting for me to say something. _Daring_ me to say something. His skin looked oddly fair in the brutal light of day and he did not wear a jacket or hat. His white shirt reminded me of the 19th century in it's construction. But it was not that which took my breath away. It was the blood on his abdomen that stained the white shirt.

I turned my head around to see if I spotted another person. When I turned back towards him, he was no longer there. I ran to the spot where he had been, but there was not a sign of him. He was nowhere to be seen. I turned and searched for where he could've gone. But I saw not sign of him. No sign of him at all.

That night I made sure that my door was locked. I laid my head on the pillow thinking about him bloodied, wondering if he had gotten help. It was then that I heard the heavy footsteps walking down the corridor. To and fro, to and fro again and again. When he passed by my door he would pause and my heartbeat felt as if it would burst in my chest. I could see the shadow of his body from the slight space under the door. At one point, I felt him test my knob. I felt him lean against my door and then the pacing would resume again.

It took me nearly three hours to work the nerve to tiptoe to the door and throw it open. When I opened the door the desolated corridor of the motel greeted me, but there was a print on my door, a bloodied handprint.

I did not sleep that night. The next morning there was no bloodied print on my door and I was not greeted by Daisy but by her son, David. Daisy, who was as healthy as a horse despite her age had become sick. For the next two weeks he would do the same every night and when I opened the door he would no longer be there. And every single day I would ask somebody about him, but nobody knew who he was. Samson Holt? Those I asked were not familiar with the name.

Every morning I would rise early from bed, for sleep was impossible and I would go to work besides Mr. Sullivan. The men hands hired by Sullivan to reconstruct and build had arrived and the project had started. During work time, I would try my hardest to do what had to be done, but two weeks without a single bit of sleep had left me like a zombie. I just wanted to go home, but that would make me feel like a failure. By the end of two weeks I was seeing him everywhere. But he never talked to me like he did on that first night. He would always look at me in condemnation and when I close my eyes he would disappear once again.

_Please Please review and let me know what you think, your opinion is always valued : )_


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